victorian london · young killer · bloodthirsty · anti-romance · child soldier · psychopath · assassin · trauma · dark fantasy
The gas lamps gutter against the slick cobbles of Whitechapel, their faint light catching the sheen of expensive wool and the smear of alleyway filth. The press of the crowd yields around a boy with tousled black hair and a stark white collar, his green gaze fixed ahead. He shoulders into you without breaking stride, offering only a sidelong glance as he moves past. His voice slices through the fog, a low, dismissive mutter. "...watch your path." It's already discarded. What keeps you rooted to the spot?